I'm Not At All Good Looking

Part 22 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

I hope this doesn’t come as any big surprise, but the Number One cause of fragile self-esteem -- referring of course to the standard Richter’s Scale of Self-Esteem, Man, Beast, or Plant -- is your appearance. What do you look like, ape or man?

Appearance can take in a whole bunch of things, gender, country of origin, economics, personality type, etc. Personality type is one of the more interesting categories, because some personalities are proudly slovenly, set in their ways, inert. Because even if you're your own worst critic, there are things you can't see. If you look in a mirror -- I'm convinced of this -- you're not really seeing what others see. I'm in my 60s but look 26-ish in the mirror, to me.

In reality, though, a guy can look like an old-fashioned city dump in pants, or, if it’s a woman, can resemble the same city dump in a girdle so tight it’s constricting her blood-flow and given her very tight veins. Anyone with an overly pale appearance, it's generally a matter of shy, very demure, veins. You see one, you want to be careful. Don’t buy her an ice cream sundae because the first bite she’ll pop! And speaking of Pop, he's got diabetes real bad and can’t have ice cream, but that doesn’t stop him from sneaking it, resulting again in tragedy, his blood sugar so wildly out of whack he sweats through his clothes and ruins the couch. And maybe dies. Either way, the couch is hauled out.

So “appearance” is a catch-all category. If it “appears” to fit, throw it in, the more the merrier, "ya ha, I'm so proud, I'm the merry prankster!" There’s a lot of people who like to work with data. (Which may not be especially relevant, my first spoken word as a baby was Data and Mama.) Although now with the couch ruined, and Data maybe dead, maybe not, depending on if someone called 911, it likely doesn’t matter. I’d run in myself and check but I’m on a deadline with this article. And I’m weighing every word, consulting the dictionary, seeking sentences online that I can copy without detection, common stuff, like “It’s a nice day where I live,” who’s going to know? It sounds like something I might say so it's good enough!

Anyway, appearances. Did you know this? I used to be a consultant for a church. With me so far? The church had a TV ministry, and one of their doctrines had to do with the blessing of God manifesting itself in prosperity, always bettering your best, receiving and having material things, more and more, greater and greater luxuries, swag, being the envy of the world. And they knew the truth, that any of the riff raff coming in with despicably bad clothes needed to be dealt with. We mostly sat them in the last rows, then say 10 minutes in, we’d rotate them out and bring in a new bunch. Each bunch would get donuts and juice, then go through the door to the “jacuzzi,” which was actually an exit that locked behind them. That church had high self-esteem, and I’m sure you’d agree they deserved their stellar reputation.

All that is kind of amusing, I know -- which I might reprise if I ever do the theme “Getting Away with Anything” -- but today we’re worried about self-esteem. And whether Richter had it on his scale or we merely go by common sense, appearance is the number one thing. If you overhear someone say you’re not at all good-looking, it’s 50/50, maybe you are purely ugly, but more likely it’s a mixture of your physical appearance including your clothes. And even a monster looks halfway decent in a nice suit and tie.

I'm sure you get the point.

Those Frolicksome Sweethearts

Part 25 of 30

Self-Abuse September

This one's for a particular group of you guys and you know who you are. Nothing’s ever for everyone, because of course kink’s a focused commodity. The market hath spoken, We’re micro-targeting this or that particular nerd nugget of reverie and merriment! So I gotta join 'em! The more the merrier, you know, but we’re disparate in our desperation. Even complete nudity isn’t the standard currency -- big duh, I know, it's so boring. But you could have someone bound head to toe in girdles and make more money (in places) than the whole boring display, splat, right in your face.

How do I know all these things? The less said the better. Mostly window peeking, coast to coast. Wyoming's particularly kinky, but the houses are all 600 miles apart. Also I’ve mastered the skills (this took two years in shaman's camp) of hypnotic bird warbling to put people in involuntary trances. (I say involuntary but they’ve never been happier.) Anyway, regardless whether you disagree or not -- and one of my kink triggers is having people disagree with me -- that’s life. A guy has his rounds, a guy makes his rounds, and that’s it. Right now I’m trying to rush-write this post because I have an appointment with a guy who likes being forced to clip his toenails. Doesn't sound like much? They're rusty clippers!

Anyway, our pink dancing girls in this ultimate beautiful circle dance of ribbons and sunshine magically appearing on bright mornings, so innocent, don’t have a clue what they’re up against. Or maybe they do, [rubbing hands] so much the better! They go by, a pink blur, although I have some focusing skills. It’s even a good mental challenge. Say you have five or six identical things, how long can you continue to isolate one particular thing. Then they think they’ve obscured your thought in their blur, in the mystery, and present themselves for the selection process. How surprised they are when you make your selection in a split second and seem to know what you’re doing. You, you, you.

Of course there’s no force here, and I’m a perfectly sweet guy, treasuring one and all (within limits) -- whether you wear bright pink or sun-like yellow. It’s charming to call each one by name, first, middle, last name initial, then manifest an intuitive knowledge discerned right there on the spot of each one’s favorite color, quotation, political party, movie, etc. Now it’s time for the first cut, which, alas, is based on political party. If she's Republican I’m so nauseated I can barely stand, but stand I do until she's safely out the door and blacklisted for the future. There’s no greater buzz kill. Hate to get political, but these days it's life and death. No bigger depressant for my normally rigid libido.

Ruthie Gets Her Man

We have a love match! Old Professor Woolworth and our lovely student union cafeteria lady, Ruthie! With me the middle man, seeking to ensnare Woolworth and three other psychology profs in a compromising position. Little did I know it'd end in a whirlwind mutual seduction and wedding all the same day! For that, I can only thank my lucky stars above.

As it turned out, Woolworth had his eye on Ruthie for many years. But he always figured that his being a lowly psychology professor at the university meant he had no chance with someone at her level. She was always friendly to him, yes, but was she really? As a psych prof he looked for unspoken truths and ulterior motives, to the point he was completely mixed up on which was which. While all that time Ruthie was juicy fruit, ripe for the picking by the right man.

My part in this love story was not completely pure. I'm still trying to get to the bottom of the Money Mule question, Why do money mules always take the money and run, never returning? And I asked four professors to help in the study. But first, as always, I needed to find out if they had scholarship on their minds and not just sex. Enter Ruthie, exquisitely dolled up, a temptation for each.

Sure enough, when my back was turned (so they thought, for I had cameras in nearly every room), each professor failed the test. Professor Morningwood was up first, barely waiting for me to be out of sight. His reasoning was "The early bird gets the worm" He beamed as he got Ruthie alone. "We'll start early and make love throughout the long day!" But she was repulsed, knowing he'd only make hay while the sun shined, then desert her by nightfall.

Ruthie ran, but right into the waiting grasp of Professor Cherrywood. And "grasp" is the right word. Cherrywood is a hands-on kind of guy, always seeking out the sweetest fruit and seeing if it's ripe for the picking. With skill and dexterity, he had Ruthie against the wall, doing his full appraisal. "This is good," he thought, his grubby hands all over her: "Plump, ripe, juicy, with just the right hardness and flavor," before Ruthie had had quite enough and slapped him, leaving Cherrywood in the pits.

Next, Professor Deadwood lurked in the shadows down the hall. He knew he needed her, but he was worried, "What will I do with her if I get her?" Yet he couldn't resist, with her beauty and how exquisitely she was dolled up, and the bountifulness in her every move. So great! Something in the way she moved ... made Deadwood almost move. He was certain he felt a twitch -- could it be? ... his first stirring in years? Yes! He believed it was so. Meds hadn't worked, counseling, and manual rousing techniques had all failed, but now, with his professorial gown around his ankles and trusting the sensation of that surge of confidence, he made his move. Which -- DAMN! -- ended before it began, phantom arousal playing him false...

Watching these encounters on video, I could only shake my head. These men aren't the scholars I need ... They're lecherous! Nothing on their minds but sex! I strode back and forth in the control room, fuming, wondering what I could do now. How can the money mule question be answered if I have no help? It went on like that. I was absolutely lost in confusion, consumed by my own worries. It must have been 20 minutes of pacing and sweating, and I'd lost my focus. Then I suddenly realized, "Ruthie! Woolworth!" Rushing to the panel I pushed all the buttons. Where were they?!

I raced the halls, but hearing nothing could only imagine the worst. When I thought I heard ... yes, it is ... I heard what I can only call the very subtle whispers and cooing of cuddling and loving afterglow. I almost burst in but thought better of it. You sly dog! I thought to myself of Woolworth. You took her in complete sincerity and tenderness and now she's yours ... You are the man for the job! The job of understanding Money Mules. (As it turned out, maybe Ruthie took him.)

Long story short -- let's just say they took each other -- they were totally in love. Woolworth had more going on behind that beard than anyone gave him credit for. And Ruthie, though exquisitely dolled up, was a doll in reality. Neither one had thought they were good enough for the other, and that's what kept them apart. But being alone, apart from the high station of cashiers and low station of psych profs, they realized they were soul mates. I conducted the wedding ceremony. The others served as witnesses. And we would live happily ever after.

As a wedding gift, and payment in part for Money Mule research, I sent them forth with a big box stuffed with $300,000. Whether I'll ever see them again, that I doubt. You send someone out with that kind of money, they've never been known to return.

The Most Beautiful Thing

I see a picture like that and my heart goes, "Bing bang boom, gimme gimme something like that, exactly that, that and in that same quantity!" It tells of plenty, like the horn of plenty. I can see the end from the beginning, of course -- it's one of my talents -- but I have enough short-term optimism to set all finitiude aside and say, "Yes, that will do me for a good long while."

Maybe it goes back to when we used to play grocery store, that we always wanted enough, a supply that did not quit. Or just the fact that everything that we have in hand, like the bird in hand, is that much we don't have to scratch for later. In fact there's no scratching, because the vital things of life are taken care of, freeing us to pursue the deeper matters of the spirit. And that's often been what's kept me from the spirit, the sense of lack, needing to get out on a zero degree day to procure toilet paper.

How tough it can be, too, to walk the bazaars, haggling over this much toilet paper. "Who do you think you are, needing that much, while everyone else goes without?" "I know, I know, on the face of it it looks like security issues, kind sir. But sell me this quantity and you shall not see my sort in your exalted shop for a good long time. I will husband each roll, I will keep it above the encroaching floods, I will say 'I shall use this much and no more!', everything knowing its limits, being divinely decreed."

That makes it right. Something that right can't be wrong. To have this much, arms full in hand, and to have it stored on the shelves, properly displayed, in the secret closet, to look at like Midas' millions, that's good. When I first see it, O how I linger, setting aside what I'm usually thinking of, the gnawing reality of finitude. But without really trying, I do mentally posit the limits of this stash. Six months if I'm lucky. I'm turning aside my fellow man for a six month supply.

But to each his own, right? One man hoards fine whiskey, or wine? Artwork, gold, valuable collectibles. Survivalists have their canned goods and ammunition. Learned old men hunch over tomes by their personal fire, guarding their treasure. Trolls are guarding bridges against goat encroachment. "There's gold in them thar hills!" someone cries, and everyone goes running. Except me, I'm not running for that gold, when I've got what I need right here in hand. Call me a Renaissance Man, appreciating the necessities.

I believe someday I will be endlessly happy, in the great forever. This stash of toilet paper goes a ways toward the fulfillment of that day, pointing to it. Were I to have not just these but another dozen rolls, that would be something of a topper, but I'm not sure I'd be happier. Tell not the looters! Maybe they'll never figure it out, even if I fail to make an appearance in the public square like everyone else, clamoring for rolls and using the communal cob chained to the bucket. I will be sly, making periodic appearances, trusting that the supply back home is safe for those moments.

Such worry only attests its worth. Because mankind, his back pressed up against the wall, is always smart. He know this is what he wants. And must have. And that's the rub. I spoke of looters. I hate it, but when desperation runs high, it's obviously easier to be found out. They could cry, "There he is! Get him! We divide the spoil, a little for you, a little for me!" Sorry to end on a down note.

But rejoice today, friends, for the stores are still full of it!

My Scenic Train Ride - "HIC! HIC!"

It's probably true that most folks like riding the scenic cruise trains you see around the country. I've found it's a good relaxing time for an old guy like me, not given to too much excitement and preferring to take it easy.

We've come a long way since the hobos rode the lines and had to sleep under bridges in hobo jungles, scarfing mulligan stew and fighting for every bite. Now they bring us a lovely three course lunch, starting with the salad and bread, then steak/potatoes/veggies, whatever, then the dessert. All the times I've ridden, I've never been hungry enough to beg from passersby afterwards.

Something they have plenty of now, as well, is alcohol. And some of the folks (not me) get pretty lubed. The last time I was on board there was a party of six, three women and three men, and the men were completely lubed. Bubbling over. And carrying on, too, pawing their wives. One of them even saw me -- a gnarly 61-year-old man -- in the vestibule, the space between cars, and thought I was kind of cute.

Shortly after, my having eluded him and maintained my virtue, we were back at our tables in the dining car. I sipped a Coke and these guys were enjoying spiked coffee, topped with about three inches of alcohol-enriched foam and even a cherry on top soaked in whiskey for six weeks.

The real fun came, then, when the guy who runs the train line came out to narrate the more picturesque sights along the way. These guys, still running up their liquor tab, were generally well-behaved, but with those unfortunately loud, involuntary "HIC!" noises more common in taverns. The train guy was trying his absolute best, but I could see a look of frustration on his face, being so rudely interrupted as he was.

"On the left, you'll notice the Golden Mountains, the single source of our nation's great riches----" "HIC! .... HIC! .... HIC!" Sometimes they hicced in threes like that, one per man. We veered around a corner and the Golden Mountains receded from view, but I'm given to understand everything in Fort Knox came from there.

Going down a steep incline, the train guy started in again: "Ahh, the majestic Valley of the Kings!," he said approvingly, "who mystically appear at the fog line whenever--" "HIC! .... HIC!" That was one guy hiccing twice, and his wife gave him a major league jab in the ribs. That led to laughter from the other guys, which degenerated into their own "HICcing" fit. I'd actually forgotten the Valley of the Kings was anywhere near here. Now I'll have to look it up, what causes the mystic Kings to appear and where precisely. Because the train man didn't get it out.

Soon we went around a beautiful curve, supposedly the biggest curve in the world since Ethel Merman's death, and there was shimmering Lake Diamond, home of splendid magical jewels that are gathered on the beach by true believers, if your heart is certified properly righteous. The train guy started in, saying, "And here is shimmering Lake Diamond," then abruptly gave up mid-sentence, anticipating a loud chorus of "HIC! HIC! HIC! HIC! HIC!", all three men going at it in discordant guttural belches. The train veered around a corner, leaving Lake Diamond out of sight.

It went like that, then it was time for Happy Hour, before pulling into the station an hour later. I watched the wives leave with their husbands staggering toward their cars, and with my hand over my lips, emitted a tiny, silent HIC of my own. One little drink at Happy Hour.

100 Naked Ladies Jumping the Fence

The doctor gave me something for the troubles with itching I've been having lately. It turned out the problem was a mix of poison ivy and chiggers. A bad combination. So now I'm taking medicine for it, which the doctor said would probably keep me wired and awake nights. Of course her words were repeated in my mind a thousand times as I tried to get to sleep last night. It would've been better if she'd just kept her mouth shut, or said you'll sleep like a baby. Because I know this is 80% mental. If you think it, it happens. I could not get to sleep, whatever I tried.

I thought, I could count sheep, then systematically aroused a mental flock in my mind, jumping as they do, one by one, over a fence in a pleasant pasture. I know from frequent experience with jumping sheep that they're used to it, they don't care, and, anyway, it's usually 10 minutes effort tops, nothing to complain about. And they're free to go back to whatever they were doing.

But the sheep weren't really catching my fancy, and I kept getting up to check one thing or another. Back to bed, then I was up again with an idea I had to jot it down, etc. My inner voice said, "You're not even giving it a chance." To which I snapped, "Yeah, well, you don't know what I'm doing, so shut up and leave me the hell alone!" Talk about wired, cussing out my inner voice! I owe myself an apology.

Then the idea suddenly hit me, Why not call forth a bunch of naked ladies to jump the fence? Just the prospect of lining up 100 girls would be appealing, yeah?  But it turned out to be harder and less satisfying than I had hoped. For one thing, they're not sheep. They had many complaints: "You brought us out here for this?" "Where are we anyway?" "Why are we naked?" And a few covered themselves like they were ashamed.

I looked over at a bus driver, and he shrugged, as if to say, "They've been that way the whole trip." I had to wonder: I only had this idea five minutes ago and someone organized a trip, which would've taken hours? Someone had to find the ladies, get them to consent to a trip, explain to them they would be nude, find the buses, the bus drivers, and others to take care of their comfort needs along the way, etc. The logistics being extraordinary for such a potentially minor outing -- with me likely to go to sleep in 10 minutes -- it had to be UPS! And who's paying them? Who's taking out the taxes, keeping track of the bookwork, and all that? Life is complicated. You can't eat, sleep, or even die without it being big business.

Regardless of all that -- and I never found out the answers -- there they were, 100 of the finest naked women this side of my wildest fantasies as a 14-year-old, which were normally far more exciting than those of a 60-year-old. A lot of these gals were clearly old enough to know better, and actually one had no qualms about ruining it for me. "I ain't jumping over no damned fence, sugga," was what this flashy woman said. I helped her with her purple kimono -- I could tell she'd had a hard scrabble life -- and suggested she sit this one out on the bus.

That left me with 99 who were more or less game for jumping the fence. That is, after we wasted a bunch of time talking it over. "No, seriously, I really want you to jump the fence." I got various responses. Again, some were covering themselves, talking it over with boyfriends, saying they wouldn't, etc., and, "Who are you anyway?" I patiently explained again, "I'm just guy trying to get to sleep." Then I had a question of my own: "What are you doing naked in my thoughts if you don't know me?" "This is no good," one of them said, dismissively. But once the others started, she didn't sit out.

But then it became very clear very fast that the jumping wasn't going to work. Only a few gals managed to jump. We had some dives, some side straddles, and one Fosbury flop. In each case they were banged up pretty badly. These girls weren't at all used to the basics of fence jumping, which UPS might have considered when picking them. After a while, if I wanted to salvage anything, I really had no choice but to simply open the gate and let them walk through.

OK, so they're walking and I'm counting: "1, take a look and let her go. 2, take a look at let her go. 3, take a look..." Then the bus driver came up to me and said, "What are you doing, bro, just counting? I'm not complaining but that's it?" "Yes," I said, "were you expecting something more?" Then I looked across the field and saw such an assortment of beds, bathtubs, hotel attendants, and druggists stocked with all manner of protection, that I could only think, "Such logistics, UPS had to have done this!" But someone had gotten ahead of himself, since counting was all I had in mind.

And yet ... as they passed, 1, 2, 3, etc., it was working its special magic on me -- something of the sparkle of life that you don't get counting sheep. 40, 41, 42. A lot of bowing and blowing of kisses. 50, 51, 52 ... hey, don't forget 55, wow! By now I had really stretched out and was taking it in, stretched on my bed, that is. We got to 60-something and I felt like Hefner, warm in his terrycloth bathrobe. The 70s passed, which was an international group, mostly Eastern European. Lots of odd looking hairdos and tough muscular gals doing boastful leg squats, very unappealing. By the time the 80s passed, I was happy for the change, as these were some of the ladies from home, about my age and relatively uncomfortable in the nude. But they were reasonably well-kept, better than me, frankly.

Then the 90s came, and -- please, may I have a moment? -- we were getting much warmer. I literally fell in love 10 times. But the love I had for the first nine was nothing like the love I had for the last one, Number 99! I love you, 99! UPS kept the best till last, the sweetest, coolest, and most beautiful girl of my dreams!

I should explain. She looked like everything I've ever wanted. You know? Miss July meets Farmer's Daughter meets Mom-as-a-Teenager meets Joan Jett meets Hayley Mills. And a great personality, whoa! And she also writes a blog, the female version of mine, and she's also very obsessive/compulsive! The perfect match! We were locked there in a feverish embrace, rolling around, grabbing one another like the supermarket sweepstakes. I was going for the bigger stuff, almost too much to handle. She also was going for the bigger stuff, which I know by experience can be dynamite.

Suddenly, and unwelcome to one and all, there was a clouding over of the sky and a torrential downpour. The heavens opened with such fury, it couldn't be stopped, a terrific deluge. Everyone ran for cover, myself and my darling 99 included. But as I trudged along, my feet became sore from sinking in the mud, and I felt myself becoming so sleepy that I collapsed. I was only able to look up once more, and saw 99 had also slipped in the mud. But by now I was gone, I couldn't help her.

Born To Sin -- A Swimming Pool Right Outside

This one is hot ... I'm still shaking, a bit, sitting here at home. I'm thinking, Wow! this guy actually lives there! Lucky dog, that's for sure! The view outside my window hasn't changed in years, certainly not for the better. I've had a good view of the garage since the '70s, that's the biggest thing.

But this guy ... whoa! He's a guy from church. It just so happened he needed a ride today, and you know me, Mr. Volunteer. There was a column in the paper one day where they asked if you ever volunteer. I felt guilty, then a month later I'm regularly picking a guy up for church.

Today, he needed help getting stuff from the car inside, since we'd had a potluck lunch. Right away, we're unloading the car and I'm noticing some activity off to the left, where there's a beautiful pool. The sun was beaming down and the water was shimmering, as you can tell from the undoctored photo. But that wasn't the best part!

We got to his apartment and he pulls open the curtains of the picture window. There we are, gazing down on enough bathing beauties to stock five years of fantasies. I started joking around with him, "Are these your nose prints on the glass?" Which he seemed to be embarrassed by. "How do you get anything done around here?" I could barely contain my enthusiasm. "This is like dying and going to heaven, and finding it's better than you could've ever hoped for." But he wasn't sharing any of this, waving it off and putting away his Tupperware.

I thought, OK, you go your way, I'll go mine, and left a few nose prints of my own. One of the bathing beauties was a truly modern woman, having a tattoo of something on her chest, which was peeking out of the suit. It's a hard image to shake, even though I couldn't make it out. I doubt it said "Come to Poppa." Plus, of course, I'm wondering what she's doing out there getting sun. I thought that was out. But no matter, sun cancer be damned! And of course she wasn't the only one, right there on display, sunning herself and taking up everyone's attention. Some of these ladies must work out, or eat right, or get exercise some other way -- I'll bet they do! They're definitely fit! Fit for lots of things.

And lest I be accused of being one-sided and showing gender bias, which I'd never do, there were a few rather buff young men. It seems the summer brings them out. The pool brings them together like a magnet. I was amazed at this one guy's beautiful six pack. I glanced down at my own two liter bottle and felt ashamed. Still, wouldn't it be a real treat for an old guy like me to be parading himself out there? Dipping his toe in the water and giving one of those ugly shivers, arms on the chest to get warm? That didn't happen. I'm decrepit. I don't think I could affect the look of nonchalance anymore. When you're old you remember wasting your youth.

I'm over at the window making yelping noises, and stuff like the noise of bacon sizzling in a hot skillet. And this lucky dog, my church friend, acted like, "Yeah, so what?" He's a true church mouse, that's for sure! I looked over and saw an Einstein poster on the wall. Oh, into your studies, eh? Good for you, not me. Good things come to them that wait, and I got all day. If I lived there I'd be up with my glasses cleaned, binoculars, and telescope, and a veritable feast for the senses, a buffet, particularly the sense of sight. I've probably said enough!

I sort of agree with everyone, Pastor Wadd and the white-haired elders, etc., lust is a terrible thing. (I'm honestly not quite as gung ho as them. I'm just not that open, because I know it'd mean more counseling.) But it does have some redeeming uses, such as letting you know, even if you're virtually dead in appearance, everything's still working fine inside. Whatever the evolutionary impulse is behind our instincts, it works all by itself, on autopilot. And that has something to do with the Divine.

March Madness -- Punish The Coaches

I'm a victim of March Madness this year! Watching basketball. Not all of it, but a bunch. I should say, the phrase March Madness is a trademark of the NCAA, as is March Mayhem, Final Four, and maybe the Big Dance, and who knows what all else.

And after I get this blog done, maybe Punish The Coach will be a trademark, too, because I believe it would be super popular.

The coach, as everyone knows, is the man in charge. He's the one who's taken a bunch of rough-cut know-nothing guys and introduced them to basketball. He's shown them the ball and explained to them what it is. They've learned the basics from his hands and lips, that it rolls, bounces, flies, and goes through circular things called hoops, then through net-like things called nets. After the basics, it's on to the advanced stuff, like the court, the various lines on the floor, and the rules of the game.

Having learned all that, it's time to form a team and chalk up some victories. The way I understand it, by the time they're allowed into the NCAA Tournament, they have proven themselves on the court in something called the regular season. It appears the criteria for admission is to win more games than they lose, then they apply another factor, the quality of their opposition. If they've got all their dunks in a row, they're in.

Now it's time to win or lose in the tournament. And lose they do! In fact, any rational survey of the situation has to conclude that they're nearly all losers. Only one team makes it through the tournament unscathed. The others have signed up more or less for a completely predictable loss. They're putting themselves through all the agony (which is up to 99% assured) for the rarest of chances that they'll win.

My proposal is, if they lose, as most of them must, we should let the coach experience some of the anguish. As the representative of the team, the head, he must submit to the worst rigors.

OK, we'll leave the last two teams, those in the championship game, aside for a moment. (The last losing coach will face his rigors just prior to the winning team getting their trophy). So this means we have 66 teams who have already lost. At halftime of the final game, we want to bring the 66 coaches out, and have them submit to punishment. Obviously they've done something very wrong that their teams haven't won, although, yes, it's assured that all but one will win.

We line them up by first out, with statistics of the game governing final placement. Then it's on to the festivities, dunk tanks, pie throwing, children pelting them with Nerf balls, and rotten tomatoes. It's a gentler form of what we see in mythology, in tribal societies who are concerned about fertility and crops, the death of the king. I can see that coaches would love to do it, because it might just work, swaying the gods to give them a more fruitful season next year.

All the nastiness out of the way, we have the same line-up, and we pass out the laurel wreathes. I'm very merciful, so I'm saying we add one to the Sweet 16 for purposes of this ritual, 16+1. The top 17 coaches get a bigger laurel wreath for their head, along with a kiss from the prettiest cheerleaders. Of the next two divisions (16 each), one gets slightly smaller laurel wreaths and a kiss from the more average cheerleaders, and the other gets even smaller laurel wreaths and a kiss from the below average cheerleaders.

The next-to-last division is only 15, to account for the 1 we added to the Sweet 16. They get a laurel sprig and a kiss from whoever's left. The last four teams of the 68 in last place, the coaches of the teams, get to sniff a laurel sprig, and look at whoever's left. Plus a kick in the ass.

As You Are Now, I Once Was

"As you are now, I once was. As I am now, you also shall be."

Forever, this is one of the greatest sentiments I've ever heard!

Back when old folks died in their late 40s, this great sentiment was reserved for gravestones. But now, when you can easily live into your 70s, or even exceed 80, we're hearing it a lot more. I hope you don't think it's too amazing, but even I've been known to mutter it, and I haven't yet turned 60!

Just the other day, I think it was, there was some young scamp giving me the eye as youth is prone to do in the dessicated face of age, as if to say, "I'm cool and you're an old codger. I'm still in the first flower of youth, able to frolic through the streets with long hair, hip clothes, and buff legs. And I've even got some of the cooler eyeglass frames that look like crap on anyone over 29. Look at me, I'm able to turn heads, make entire groups of girls giggle, and name my fee, were they to put me out to stud. I'm pretty! I'm poetic! I can dazzle with the best of 'em! If I'm sitting on a rock playing with a weed, I'm a god. If I'm lounging on a bench outside the bar reading a paperback, I'm a genius lost in thought. If I brush my hand against the ragged whiskers of my chin, I'm the image of beauty. I might just stay up all night! I certainly could! I could stay up all night and laugh about whatever, the universe! And I'm into vintage vinyl!"

Of course I'm looking at him somewhat askance. Vintage vinyl, huh? I bought those new. Honestly, I'm not begrudging him his imagined supremacy. If that's the way he wants to think, I know exactly how it goes. Because that's the first part of the epitaph, "As you are now, I once was." Other guys like me -- dumber guys -- probably are bitter. But what's there to be bitter about? We knew we were going to lose it. Your skin starts to sag and wrinkle up, but you're still obviously you. Your teeth fall out and you're depressed, but look on the bright side, you've still got a tongue that's pink. For every bad thing, there's something good. You sleep more, but what's there to stay awake for? Your hair looks like a mangy dog, but the bald spots aren't that bad, as long as you keep your cap on.

I might be quite a bit better at this than others of my years, to tell the truth. Because I was with my grandparents a long time, so I saw right up close what it means to deteriorate. I should say, however, that old folks were different back then. They actually were keeping the epitaph for their grave. And they had next to no bitterness, because there never were cool. This goes back before teenagers as a dominant market force and 20-somethings as the ideal person. In fact, back then, it was just the opposite. They respected folks older than themselves who'd somehow managed to survive, and as for kids, they thought they were morons. So the epitaph was more of a cautionary thing about life and death in general than the bitterness of age ranting against the blitheness of youth.

Yes, I'm definitely convinced. Everyone else is bitterer than me. I'm barely bitter at all. Really, I mean if these guys I see, like the young scamp above, thinks he's hot stuff and in his eyes I'm an animated corpse, that's his trip. I wouldn't expect him to understand fully the sentiment -- given his lack of years and sense -- "As you are, I once was."

My picture, though, has the young woman, her back cut down to there, being observed by the older gal, whose bun might be too tight. "Look at her, lost in his arms, probably doesn't even know what an emergency dime is! Her precious back is cut so low! Honey, just drop the skintight rag and be done with it! Of course she'll be nude soon enough, and keeping Lothario entertained all night long! With no one to answer to!" So much for women.

OK, then the other side of the coin is, "As I am now, you also shall be." Ah, yes, our revenge! We shall have our revenge, if only we're able to live long enough to see it. And leaving out that we'll be even more wasted, while the once young scamp will still be relatively young. Be that as it may, if he's out with his long hair, etc., and it all looks like crap, that's good revenge. Or she with her low-cut back, "Cover it up, Grandma, your skin's leather!" She's been surpassed by the next generation and is now the butt of bitter remarks. Teaching her a lesson or two: 1) She should've avoided tanning booths; and, 2) Hold on to 16 as long as you can.

Remember, you young rascals, the Grim Reaper is coming for you, too. And I'm loving it! So enjoy it while you can, because before long you too will be a miserable shell of your former self. Before you know it! LOL, I offer you knowing laughter, because I know exactly how you're going to feel, like crap. LOL!

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Related post: "Enjoy Your Youth -- It's About Over"